in front of what would have looked to the uninformed like little more than a miserable shop, merely a tent made of silks of varying age, at the door of which sat a man, his legs crossed, surveying the passersby with a calm and indifferent gaze, as though they had nothing to give him and could take nothing from him, either.
Lalita looked at him and bowed, and he lowered his eyes fractionally and bobbed his head a very slight amount right and then left, then right again. Consent enough. She walked past him, into the tent, where there were bolts of silk everywhere. The last time she’d come here, those had been tables with produce. It did not matter. The nature of the shop might change completely, but what mattered, truly, was the establishment beneath it.
She walked past the colorful silk, paying no attention to the two obese men who guarded it and who did not seem at all interested in selling the fabric. Perhaps she expected a more British attitude. She’d been away too long.
At the place she remembered—the spot where she could feel the power surge beneath her feet—Lalita stopped and made a gesture, which was known as a “wave of revealing” in the magic of her people. To other people it was unknown. It made visible what had been hidden by the magic of her kind. In this case, what had been hidden there at the back of the dingy shop, in the shadows that smelled of silk and the street outside, was a massive door, set in an old, time-weathered stone doorway.
To this door, Lalita bowed three times, and the door opened to reveal a man. He was triple the height of a normal man and wore only loose pantaloons of violently red silk. In each of his hands was a sword, gleaming and polished and lethal-looking.
Lalita wondered if he were truly that big, or if it was only an impression conveyed by some sort of magic. His look—a sword in each hand, his shaved head, a grin on a face that appeared, otherwise, oddly blurred—led her to suspect it was the last, but it didn’t matter. She viewed him as what he truly was, the guardian whose job it was to protect the inner sanctum from profane eyes.
She bowed to him, and pulled up the scarf part of her sari to cover her head and half of her face in its soft folds. Then she ran her hand, palm up, in front of her face, without touching it. In that gesture, she allowed him to see her true aspect. In that gesture, she revealed who she was.
The guard jumped back with a grace that would have looked unnatural to someone not acquainted with the nature of this place. He sheathed his swords with blinding speed, and bowed to her—hands joined at his chest. “Welcome,” he said, stepping out of the way, to allow Lalita to pass through.
Past the guard was another doorway—the massive, hammered gold doors standing wide open. And past the doorway was a hall that seemed to Lalita’s gaze as immense and long as it had looked the first time she had entered it.
It was of golden stone, built deep and narrow. It had side walls and—high up on them—windows, through which came a diffused and filtered light, like the sun seen through several layers of dazzling white cloth. From the walls inward, a profusion of columns—tall, seemingly endless columns—pierced the gloom upward. Covered in faded golden writing in an alphabet that no one had ever seen outside these halls, they held up—high above the heads of even the most towering giant—a ceiling like the inside of a boat keel, arched and peaked and high.
There were paintings on the ceiling, but they were not visible from Lalita’s humble height. But the paintings on the wall were fully visible. They represented—mostly—monkeys frolicking amid ancient palaces. Monkeys wearing rich apparel and jewels.
The same monkeys—or their real life counterparts—ran along the walls, amid richly dressed men and women. Lalita glimpsed them there, in the shadows, rustling and moving—their eyes, seeming too human, staring at her in something like
Lalita looked at him and bowed, and he lowered his eyes fractionally and bobbed his head a very slight amount right and then left, then right again. Consent enough. She walked past him, into the tent, where there were bolts of silk everywhere. The last time she’d come here, those had been tables with produce. It did not matter. The nature of the shop might change completely, but what mattered, truly, was the establishment beneath it.
She walked past the colorful silk, paying no attention to the two obese men who guarded it and who did not seem at all interested in selling the fabric. Perhaps she expected a more British attitude. She’d been away too long.
At the place she remembered—the spot where she could feel the power surge beneath her feet—Lalita stopped and made a gesture, which was known as a “wave of revealing” in the magic of her people. To other people it was unknown. It made visible what had been hidden by the magic of her kind. In this case, what had been hidden there at the back of the dingy shop, in the shadows that smelled of silk and the street outside, was a massive door, set in an old, time-weathered stone doorway.
To this door, Lalita bowed three times, and the door opened to reveal a man. He was triple the height of a normal man and wore only loose pantaloons of violently red silk. In each of his hands was a sword, gleaming and polished and lethal-looking.
Lalita wondered if he were truly that big, or if it was only an impression conveyed by some sort of magic. His look—a sword in each hand, his shaved head, a grin on a face that appeared, otherwise, oddly blurred—led her to suspect it was the last, but it didn’t matter. She viewed him as what he truly was, the guardian whose job it was to protect the inner sanctum from profane eyes.
She bowed to him, and pulled up the scarf part of her sari to cover her head and half of her face in its soft folds. Then she ran her hand, palm up, in front of her face, without touching it. In that gesture, she allowed him to see her true aspect. In that gesture, she revealed who she was.
The guard jumped back with a grace that would have looked unnatural to someone not acquainted with the nature of this place. He sheathed his swords with blinding speed, and bowed to her—hands joined at his chest. “Welcome,” he said, stepping out of the way, to allow Lalita to pass through.
Past the guard was another doorway—the massive, hammered gold doors standing wide open. And past the doorway was a hall that seemed to Lalita’s gaze as immense and long as it had looked the first time she had entered it.
It was of golden stone, built deep and narrow. It had side walls and—high up on them—windows, through which came a diffused and filtered light, like the sun seen through several layers of dazzling white cloth. From the walls inward, a profusion of columns—tall, seemingly endless columns—pierced the gloom upward. Covered in faded golden writing in an alphabet that no one had ever seen outside these halls, they held up—high above the heads of even the most towering giant—a ceiling like the inside of a boat keel, arched and peaked and high.
There were paintings on the ceiling, but they were not visible from Lalita’s humble height. But the paintings on the wall were fully visible. They represented—mostly—monkeys frolicking amid ancient palaces. Monkeys wearing rich apparel and jewels.
The same monkeys—or their real life counterparts—ran along the walls, amid richly dressed men and women. Lalita glimpsed them there, in the shadows, rustling and moving—their eyes, seeming too human, staring at her in something like
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